An Unknowable Truth
by the corrupted quiet one
Summary: Netherborn is a convenient term, but Kenny doesn't actually know what he is. What he does know is that what he is cannot be known, because it is unknowable. But what happens when Kyle, in his declaration of love, glimpses what Kenny is, glimpses what he ought not know?


_Netherborn_ , Kenny hasn't found a better name for what he is, because what he is cannot be known. He entered this world at Hell's Pass, yes, born to a white trash family in a backwoods town, but he is more than drunkard's sperm and addict's egg. Something dwells within him, deep down inside, a dark thing, a visceral thing, a great old thing. It came from somewhere _else_ , not of this world, not of this realm. Once, he's been there, to its original country, the plane of unspeakable horrors, the dimension of fear and helplessness. Never has he seen a place so confused, so disturbed, so devoid of hope; and a part of that lives in him, imbued in his essence, staining his spirit. It eludes definition—not good, not evil, not right, not wrong—because its nature transcends comprehension, because its truth fractures sanity, because the mind is not meant to know its existence. Kenny calls himself a Netherborn, because he will never learn what he really is.

And he's accepted this, over the years, because he got tired, grew exhausted. His questions have no answers, not here, perhaps not even _there_ , so why bother? No one understands it, his circumstance perplexing even those above and below. So, rather than let it drive him mad, he embraced it, the mystery on his soul. Death can take him a thousand times over, but the shadows always breathe life into him again. The method may be simple—an illness, an overdose—or it may be brutal—a dismemberment, a beheading—but no matter what, he wakes up in the morning, inexplicably alive. Immortals cannot die, Netherborns cannot stay dead. Kenny doesn't know why he's attracted to disaster, why he's bound by resurrection, but he knows never will.

People say he's lively, a bright and buoyant person, like a beacon or a light. Ironic, but not wholly incorrect; he exudes life, an aura of vitality, the semblance of mortality. But that is mere projection, an illusion cast by that arcane thing, simulating what it senses around it, for others not for him. His touch is warm, yet he feels forever cold. His heart is kind, yet he feels vaguely alone. His will is strong, yet he feels so lost. All because of whatever dwells inside him, that ancient and alien thing, too terrible to remember, so it forces them to forget. His friends forget that Kenny dies, because they understand life as finite, death as final. The concept blinds them, shelters them from the ugly and nasty reality, protects their delicate minds. Sanity is vulnerable, fragile like glass, easy to shatter. If knowing is half the battle, then the thing in him would break them, those he loves. Kenny won't curse them with this knowledge, because they will never accept an unknowable truth.

That's how people became superstitious, their comprehensions eclipsed by one phenomenon or another. A random natural disaster was a divine punishment, an intelligent woman's medicine was a corrupting agent. People burned and drowned and hung for things they knew that others did not, because the world was frightened and unsure. People think they're better than that in this day and age, modernity and science shining lights into the darkness, when all its done is create new shadows, new terrors, wild nightmares fuelled by the same brands of irrational prejudice. But no one likes thinking of that, not on a holiday. Sure, Halloween began as a day to ward off the spectres carrying wicked enlightenment, but now it's just a day to dress up, eat candy, laugh hysterically at horror movie gore, drink heavily at neighbourhood costume parties. The scariest sights are those plastered in the gutter before trick-or-treating hours and those dressed up as hyper-sexualised versions some children's cartoon character. Everything else fits autumnal aesthetic, jack-o-lanterns and false cobwebs and hard cider.

His lips taste like fizzed candied apples and fermented brewing yeast, every kiss from Kyle another sip from the jug. Every year they go to the sketchy bonfire near Stark's Pond, him and Kyle and Stan and Cartman. They coordinate ensembles, stick together until the contest, collectively praying they'll beat out Wendy in her Chewbacca costume. But when they inevitably lose, they splinter off, follow their own traditions, Stan making mischief after too much Henny, Cartman fucking with the people tripping balls, Kenny and Kyle sneaking into the woods with salacious intent. This year followed a similar pattern: Cartman, the dull and obese Freddy Kreuger, ventured to terrorise LSD-induced dreams; Stan, the American Werewolf in South Park, hit the bar first chance he got; Kenny and Kyle, the odd couple of Part 3 Jason Voorhees and Christopher Lee's Dracula, slinked away from prying eyes for their own sweet treats. Kyle shed his faggy plastic fangs, Kenny lifted his bloody hockey mask, and they quit disguising who they were, challenged spirits to come at them. Kenny doesn't care about the hexes or the ghouls, only cares about the crimson curls between his fingers, the green eyes gazing half-lidded, the open mouth pressed to his in sloppy, stupid kissing. Kyle is his seasonal flavour.

October is a cold month, a ruthless month, plunging into winter and its chilling careless mood. It always feels like winter in the mountains, perpetually surrounded by sleet and snow, fog forming with each and every breath. Kenny sees their pants form clouds, gusting from their lips and mingling together, desperate heat against unfeeling frost. This is who they are, flame struggling in blizzard, wrapped around one another in spite of all odds. Kenny has never been a stranger to the nothing, to the infecting freeze and rigor mortis, but Kyle changed all of that. Kyle doesn't yield, he blazes and scorches and smoulders, because passion is his flame, driven and ambitious, fully immersed in his belief, and entirely engulfing in his ardour. And who would have thought— _who would have thought_ —someone like him the type to fall, fall, _fall_ for the hickish likes of him?

Kenny holds him close, feverish as their tongues slather and slide, dripping saliva as their skin sweat, sweat, sweats. For a very long time, life felt trivial, little more than a stage-play, acting out scenes predetermined by fate, nothing indeterminate. Even when he took advantage of his curse, exploited it as a gift, things felt surreally blasé. No matter how much good he did, how often he sacrificed himself, the old and ancient thing scoffed at him, mocked him. Because there are things it knows that Kenny never will, and even when he ignores it, silences its whispering disdain, the potential stings, pangs, hurts. Kyle alleviates that pain, because Kyle cares, cares in ways most people do not, cares at times most people give in. He keeps his body warm, his lungs respiring, his heart beating; Kyle reminds him life is more than the unknowable, can have meaning just the same.

Pawing hands push and tug on clothes, both eager to shed their disguises, return to their true selves. Kenny undoes the tight knot of Kyle's cape, and Kyle peels the heavy jacket from Kenny's shoulders. The night may be cruel, but they can be tender, can embrace and dry hump and laugh, laugh, laugh into the foggy midnight toll. That's how they breathe, with chuckles and snickers, accenting every in- and exhale with joy, with happiness, with feelings they can't describe. And it's in their messy kissing, in one of the brief interludes, when Kyle says it, says it so easily, so breathlessly:

" _I love you."_

His words are warm and soft, a fresh dose of pumpkin spice. They ring in his ears, the first time he's ever said it, used language so explicit, so bold, so unfaltering. They echo in his chest like vesper bell, words Kenny's longed to hear leave his lips, enlivened by his voice, spoken with such truth and certainty. There are a lot of things Kenny doesn't know, or doesn't quite know, but he does know he loves Kyle, loves him every way he can. A smile sneaks on his face, basking in the glow of his expression, Kyle wearing a loose grin, eyes verdant and vibrant, not thinking about consequence. Kyle says Kenny is the only one who makes him feel like this, light and carefree, unburdened by expectation, liberated from anxiety. It must be why he means what he says, or says what he means.

Kenny seizes his lips, locks him in affirmation, always the man of action. He kisses him fully, deeply, wholly, because he loves Kyle, too. He loves him for his kindness and his cunning, his wit and his warmth, his compassion and his ethics. So, Kenny infuses every facet of his soul into their kiss, lets Kyle feel every part of him, saturates him with every ounce of love. It is, after all, ingrained in all fibres of his being, an expertly woven thread stitching his soul together, keeping him whole. With Kyle, he can forget about the dark and visceral things, focus on what's important. Their lips smack apart, strung together with spit, and Kenny drawls:

" _I lo…"_

But he pauses, because Kyle freezes, goes rigid and taut. Kenny watches the colour drain from his face, light complexion diluting to a bleached pallor. He shudders, hands shaking, knees quaking, overwhelmed. Green eyes widen, bulge in their sockets, his loving gaze erased, replaced with a blind and unseeing stare. He fixates on Kenny, but doesn't look at him, because he sees something _else_.

" _Kyle?"_

" _What the fuck."_

His voice leaves as a wisp, before his breath hitches, heaves. Kenny recognises it—a panic attack—Kyle gasping for air, trembling all over, losing himself. Except, this time, Kenny glimpses what he sees, visions reflected in his eyes. He sees himself, his _corpses_ , his every death and demise; Kyle watches them flash in spurts, bloodied and bruised, skull protruding and brain exploding, lacking an eye or a nose or an ear. All over again, he witnesses the multi-car accidents, the high-voltage electrocutions, the point-blank headshots, the auto-erotic asphyxiation. All at once, Kyle remembers, remembers that Kenny dies, that Kenny dies a lot, that Kenny dies and dies and _dies_.

" _Kyle,_ _ **breathe**_ _."_

Kenny cups his cheeks, forces his eyes forward. He knows what to do if Kyle has an attack, but this isn't just anxiety. No, every flicker in those eyes is a brand-new trauma, torn from the recesses of his mind, wounds upon wounds upon gushing, oozing wounds. They are not scars reopened, because they never scabbed, never closed in the first place. They existed in stasis, stored and snubbed, totally forgotten and thus never addressed. But that _thing_ slipped from Kenny's mouth, the creeping shadow, and pulled them to the surface, because if Kyle loves him, he must remember, even if it breaks him. Kenny breathes in, steady, then out, heavy, repeats:

" _Kyle, c'mon,_ _ **breathe**_ _."_

Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale; reluctantly, Kyle follows suit, inhaling, exhaling, inhaling, exhaling. Each breath he draws brings a new memory, a new horror to blink away. His body sways, dizzy and nauseous, weak to the barrage. Kyle has a lot of empathy, always soaking up emotion, drenching himself in sentiments and fervours. But even empathy has limits, a point when the heart cannot absorb anymore, already dripping and gorged. And, after that point, people lose all feeling, go numb and dumb, feel nothing at all. People are vulnerable, fragile things.

" _ **Breathe**_ _."_

Kenny might not fully fit as a person, but he, too, is vulnerable, fragile. That's what love is, being vulnerable with someone, showing them fragility. And when he kissed him, loving him completely, Kenny gave him everything, including his great old thing. Kyle breathes unevenly, but breathes nonetheless, despite the shivering, the shaking, the struggling. He stares at Kenny—at him, not through—fixes on the sky blue. A damp film layers the green, still afflicted with his memories, and he chokes out:

" _What are you?"_

He sounds strained, desperate, fighting to understand. Except he cannot, will not ever understand. All he can do is cope, cope the same way Kenny does, by accepting the few truths he can. And, while Netherborn is a convenient word for it, Kenny doesn't tell him that, because it isn't fully true. Instead, he says something that is, absolutely and utterly:

" _Someone who loves you."_

And he hopes love is enough.


End file.
